


Wouldn't Miss It for the World

by supervillainesses



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Animated Series, Gotham City Sirens (Comics)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 11:56:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10593522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supervillainesses/pseuds/supervillainesses
Summary: Harley demands she and Pam meet each others’ parents for Christmas. Pam is less than excited at the prospect of setting foot in Seattle for more than a moment, but as always Harley proves herself to be the perfect negotiator. Just when did Pam become the easily manipulated one, anyway?





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is another really old fic I wrote back in 2014 or 2015, I don't recall, so it's not all that in character, but I like it still

            It was a phrase Pam never expected out of Harley’s mouth. She looked up from her newspaper—a necessary evil and byproduct of vegetative genocide; she always made sure to recycle every last page—and regarded her a long moment as she played solitaire on their bed.

            “Ya gonna answer me or what?”

            “I…what?”

            Harley flopped backward; even her pigtails seemed exasperated.

            “Do ya wanna go to each other’s parents’ for the holidays? I want you to meet my ma and pop—well, my ma _definitely_. I think Pop is still doing a stint in county. And you never talk about your parents.”

            “Selina offered to take us all to Aruba this year,” Pam supplied quickly.

            “Yeah, no. Watching Selina get an oil rubdown by a muscly greasy guy is more than enough when we went to the gym, thanks. Changing the scenery to a cruise ship won’t be much better, IMO.”

            “Yeah, that was surreal.”

            “I wanna _white_ Christmas.” Harley rolled over, a move that could only have been calculated because she displayed just the right amount of bare shoulder and collarbone from within her oversize button-up shirt. “And I wanna spend it with the ones I love.”

            Massive weight fell on Pam at the sight of Harley’s blushing pout. She stood from the chair and went to locate her phone.

            “You’re the best, Red!” Harley called after her, knowing likely just from the look on Pam’s face that she had complied and not just left the room.

            “Fuck off, Harl!” Pam shot back, wondering when it was exactly _she_ became the one so easily manipulated.

* * *

 

“Oh, thank _god_.” Selina took the news of their abandoning a holiday in the sun obscenely well. “I’ve had some other takers on the trip, now no one has to have their feelings hurt.”

            Pam furrowed her brow, frowning at her from across the breakfast table. “Selina, you have no friends.”

            “Aside from us,” Harley added.

            Harley was wearing the pot leaf T-shirt Selina got Pam as a gag gift last Christmas. Harley had stopped her from throwing it away, insisting that gifts should be given a purpose no matter the intent. Pam watched as Harley gave the bacon on her plate to Bud and Lou, who sat panting on either side of her chair, and wondered if that was just how Harley was. She hated the shirt, and she loved bacon more than anything on her plate. She was always doing the opposite of what she wanted. It was time for someone to do the same for her; she no longer felt the small twinge of guilt for bailing on Selina last-minute.

            “For your _information_ ,” Selina aggressively buttered a pancake. “I’m not talking passengers. Gotham City just received two young Bengal tigers, and guess who’s taking those babies back home? It starts with ‘cat’ and ends with—”

            “—‘ _woman_ ,’” Harley and Ivy intoned at once, being only the hundredth time Selina used that line. Pam wondered if this was how it was with her and Batman when they continued their rooftop pseudo-courtship; nothing but regurgitated one-liners and puns. If so, then the two deserved each other; they were the only two on the planet that could stomach such a high quantity of cheese.

            “Exactly. I’m gonna sell our tickets, rent a private jet, and use both the money from that and what I’ll save on hotel fair to get those lovelies out of here.”

            “You know, Selina, I have to hand it to you.” Pam commented dryly, sipping at a smoothie of kale, strawberries, and a small portion of mint. “At the rate you’re going, you might just single-handedly put the city zoo out of business.”

            Selina sighed as a cat would when getting its head stroked. “It’s a talent.”

            “Wait a minute,” Harley said slowly, her chin in her hand and her spoon tapping the bottom of her cereal bowl. “Weren’t ya the one who said one kiss and Mr. Bruce Deep-Pockets would let you use his private planes like your personal airport?”

            “That was, um, before we, well _I_ sorta—”

            “Ya chunked all over everywhere, didn’t you?”

            “He didn’t ban me. I banned myself. It was a self-banning. Too embarrassing. A shame, too. We were frequent flyers of the Mile High Club.”

            Pam frowned and set her glass on the table. So much for her appetite.

            “Ew,” Harley frowned around her spoon.

            “So, _where_ are you guys going to go, then? Just gonna stay here? _Please_ don’t break this place. It was expensive, remember?”

            “Pam’s gonna meet my family right and proper! Her idea entirely; she’s even packed our bags.”

            Selina burst out laughing before Pam could correct Harley’s obvious lie. “Isn’t you _dad_ a sweet-talking conman? I’d like to see him pull one over on Pammy here.”

            “Please, as if I’d—”

            Pam was cut off again, this time by the unnervingly intent stare from Harley. It was as if the younger woman had literal stars and hearts in her eyes, the combination of admiration and yearning in them.

            “You have my _absolute permission_ to beat the ever-loving shit out of him and my brother, Red. Get as creative as you want, this broad ain’t choosy.”

            “Has your brother taken to conning, too?” Selina asked.

            “Psh! That loser? Nah. Beat him up anyway, Pam-Pam. Bitch deserves it. Oh! I’ll need to pack the good camera; I’ll add pictures of your fist making contact with his jaw part of the New Year’s cards Ma sends out!”

            “You realize you’re more capable of ‘beating the ever-loving shit out of him’ than I am, right, Harl?”

            “Whaaaa? I couldn’t hit my baby brother, it’s Christmas! Also, if he’s mean to me I figure the burnin’ pyres of ya love for me would empower your punch right to his _OVERSIZE GUT, GOD I HATE THAT LITTLE SHIT_.”

            “You heard the kid, Pam.” Selina nudged Pam’s ribs with her elbow, the two of them watching as Harley began to rant and grumble incoherently to herself, though she occasionally gestured to the boys, as if seeking their input. “Empowered by the fires of your love. Get ’em, lover girl.”

            Pam vowed that once Selina returned from her trip she would slap and pinch every decent inch of her sunburned skin.

* * *

 

            “Feels like we’re headed to Hogwarts, Pam! Did you pack my bathrobe? I’d look stupid if I was wearin’ my bathrobe, right? Right? I shouldn’t put on my bathrobe. Don’t let me put on my bathrobe.”

            Pam thought about the trip ahead of them, the hours of transit with Harley at her side at such proximity. Minimum distraction to act as buffer for their time together. Usually, she had no problem spending endless days with the chipper blonde, who was now bouncing on her feet so rhythmically her ponytail undulated like a sea wave. They hadn’t even boarded the train yet, and she already wanted to swallow the sleeping pills she had tucked in her pocket.

            “Have you ever been on a train before?” Pam asked as they found their seats. She left their luggage to Harley for the hauling. Pam had plenty of upper body strength from years of hefting fertilizer and manure, but Harley gained a certain aura of pride when she got to be the heavy-lifter. Also, Pam’s stomach was delicately winding itself in knots in anticipation of their destination.

            “No, never!” Harley said a little loudly, one of her bags slipping from the overhead compartment onto her head. Excitedly, she shoved it back inside and bounced onto the padded bench. “It’s just like in the movies! Loud and big and stuff! We even have our own private spot! It was nice of Selina to pay for it, even though we bailed on her.”

            “She said the fee to and from Gotham was her Christmas present, remember?” Pam undid her coat and sat on the bench opposite Harley’s. She flexed her fingers, grateful that the train was overly warm. Some days, she wished she was more like an evergreen than a rosebush. “You remembered to bring things to entertain you, right? This isn’t like a plane trip; we’re gonna be here awhile until the next stop, and then another train.”

            “Yup! Magazines and a portable charger for my phone. All set. Y’know I’ve never been on a plane, either. What’s it like? Is it like this?”

            Pam cocked her head. “No, not really. It’s faster, for starters, and less roomy, depending on which type you take. I don’t think they’re very fun; the altitude change makes my ears pop and throws off my equilibrium for hours after landing.”

            “Sounds awful.”

            “It might not be for you,” Pam’s fingers brushed against the sleeping pills in her pocket again. “We can take one, some day.”

            “Really?! I—um, I mean, sure, sure. If you’re up for it. Seattle, huh? I bet it’s real nice. Figures you’d come from somewhere full of intellectual types, Pam-a-Lamb.”

            “Harley,” Pam narrowed her eyes, not sure if the hunch she was getting was correct. “Have you never…have you ever been traveling before?”

            “Me?” Her sweet little psycho jerked upward, her pigtails bouncing and face turning red. “N-no. Never. Never even been outside Gotham—Red?”

            Pam was all too aware of the determination in her gaze. She reached up into the overhead compartment and rooted around for her purse. From inside, she plucked a notepad and pen before plopping back down with a trenched brow.

            “What’re ya doin’?” Harley leaned forward. “Makin’ a list?”

            “I commend your strength to not go into the full Christmas carol, especially given that we’re so close to the actual holiday. I’m jotting down some of the best spots I think you’ll—I think you’ll want to visit. There’s a coffee shop near my parents, it’s where I’d go almost every day for hours, some days until curfew. There’s also a library, a mall, a few nice restaurants…”

            Pam began writing so quickly it became apparent it she would be the only one capable of reading it, but that was fine. She had no intentions of letting Harley go anywhere without her for the three days they’d be in her hometown.

            “Wow,” Harley marveled. “So many places! Weren’t ya ever home, Red?”

            It was meant as a joke, but the fire in Pam’s belly died as if Harley had doused the flames. She snapped the notebook shut and put it away again, allowing her hair to cover her face.

            “Listen,” she told Harley softly. “I brought some sleeping pills; I want to be…well-rested for the rest of the trip. I’m gonna take a couple now, so it’s gonna be quiet, all right?”

            Even through the sidelong glance through the curtain of her red hair, she could see the disappointment in the younger woman’s face.

            “Gee, Red…sure. Yeah! Get all the rest ya can! I’ll keep watch; no one’s gonna wake ya while I’m around!”

            Though the sight of Harley’s disappointment hurt, watching her forcefully put on a cheerful disposition for her sake was positively damning. It wasn’t her fault, it wasn’t her fault that Pam could only handle being conscious in small amounts right now, it wasn’t her fault that with every meter the train chugged along on the track she felt like it was stretching her thin and flaying her open.

            She didn’t want to go to Seattle, and letting Harley know that would hurt her worse than sleeping through most of their ride there, she was sure of it.

            Pam swallowed the pills, a special blend of herbs and botanicals she’d spent a solid twelve hours synthesizing so it would actually have an effect on her, and draped lengthwise onto the bench. Harley’s face flushed as she stared at her, and she knew what it was she wanted to ask. She tilted her head, a silent show of consent, and smiled at Harley with as much warmth as she could muster through her loosening grip on consciousness.

            Harley bounded to her feet and curled up as best she could between the back of the bench and Pam, molding herself to the redhead’s back. The smell of Harley—vanilla and berries, and the slight ever-present scent of sweat, because her girl just ran at a naturally higher temperature than she ever could—eased her, and when Pam closed her eyes she could almost pretend they were back home.

* * *

 

            The house was as utilitarian as Pam recalled. Even from the driveway, the view was painfully pristine. From the untouched layer of snow, to the evenly cut hedges that lined the blocky modernist house, it was starch and sterile. The sight of the hedges, so cleanly cut, hurt Pam in the way witnessing a circumcision might make a man flinch to cover his manhood.

            “This was ya _house?_ ” Harley exclaimed, exiting the cab first. “Geez, between you and Selina, the both of ya are just rollin’ in dough.”

            Pam placed the money in the cabbie’s hand. “If I gave you extra, would you be willing to park outside here for the week and be a speedy getaway vehicle if we need to cut and run?”

            “Why?” He clearly thought she was joking. “You girls ain’t looking to rob the place, are you? Hey, wait…you look familiar.”

            “F—nope, no I don’t.” Pam blew a puff of spores into his face, and his eyes glazed over. She reached across the seat to the cellphone charging via the cigarette lighter, programming his number into her phone. “I was half-joking before. I’m putting myself in your contacts. Don’t question the number’s existence. When I call you, drop whatever you’re doing and pick us up. Even if you don’t have this smelly cab, even if you’re on the perfect night out with your wife. I don’t care about your problems. Just rush here. Also, forget that you were ever here. And my face. And her face. Ah, hell with it. Give me back the money I just gave you and scram altogether.”

            “Yes, ma’am.”

            Harley was in the process of making a small snowman when Pam set the luggage on the concrete. It bore a striking resemblance to one of the Bat’s boys; Pam couldn’t be sure which, because they all went by the same moniker and wore the same costume to varying degrees of pantslessness. Harley patted its head and twirled to Pam, pecking her cheek.

            “I saw you Jedi mind-tricking that cabbie,” Harley glanced in the direction of its exiting. “Did he recognize us?”

            “I have no idea if our infamy reaches this far northwest, but I think so.” Pam touched the spot where Harley’s lips made contact to her face. “What was that for?”

            “Mm? Just excited! I’ve never done this before,” Harley was practically tucking her head into her coat and scarf, the image like that of a delighted turtle. Pam wished it was spring; she would love to crown that golden head with dandelion chains, and maybe lean in for a kiss of her own…

            “You’ve never met someone’s parents before?” Pam handed her half the luggage, even though Harley’s was more than half.

            Harley’s shoulders stiffened as she bent to pick up her makeup carryall, laughing mechanically. “Nah, I guess I just wasn’t parent-meeting material.”

            “Harley…”

            “Race ya!”

            Harley shot off, cutting straight through the untouched snow of the lawn. Pam shot off after her, unable to think of a single time she was allowed to run across the front yard before. Her father had a slight obsession with grass maintenance; she hoped he wasn’t like that still. Even Pam, in love with nature as she was, understood that grass was one of few plants to not worry to keep off of. Grassy fields and knolls loved being run upon, caressed by playful footsteps, just as trees longed to be climbed and witness humanity—children playing, lovers sharing secrets—living amongst their branches. Her parents didn’t understand. They seldom understood anything.

            “Do I look okay?” Harley patted at her pigtails when Pam joined her, breathless at her side. “I put on two coats of mascara, and that sweater you said made my eyes look like—what was the flower again?”

            “Hydrangeas.”

            “The one that makes my eyes look like hydrangeas, and my good boots—the present! Did you remember to grab the present?”

            “Yes, Harley.” Pam sighed as Harley rested her head on her shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay, I’ll make sure of it.”

            “That’s a weird thing to—”

            The door swung open, and the two were greeted by a small woman of indiscernible age. Shorter than Harley by far, her face was lined with minute wrinkles, but held wide eyes that denoted youth. The only thing that was certain of her, however, was that she was a maid, and she seemed awfully severe.

            “Mrs. Isley, I’ve been _dying_ to meet you!” Harley dropped the luggage in her hands in a series of thuds and took the maid’s hand in both of hers. “If your home is half as lovely as it is from outside then I think I’ve died and gone to Heaven.”

            “Mentioning death in two sentences?” Out came a voice from behind the obviously confused housemaid. A voice cold, detached, and drawling. A voice shamefully similar to Pam’s. The maid moved aside, and a woman of about fifty took her place, dressed in a skirt-suit and stockings. Her long red hair was pinned tightly back, accentuating sharp cheekbones and eyes so brown they appeared black. “How comforting. You must be Harleen. Pamela has told me so much about you…in the five-minute phone conversation we had three days ago. The intrusion is pardoned; come on in, leave your shoes by the door.”

            Mrs. Isley walked inside, leaving the door open for Pam and Harley. Harley frowned at her shoes, but toed them off and stepped inside. Pam’s heart was beating so hard she could feel the pulse in her fingertips. This was a mistake. She should have explained to Harley, but it was too late. How foolish of her to think her mother could put aside her ways in the presence of someone dear to her.

            “I love ya house,” Harley piped up again, her voice straining with the repeated line. Pam knew the tone all too well; it was the sound of silently trying to scream against the suffocating silence of the cavernous house and its high ceilings. “It’s so—white.”

            “If by white, you mean _clean_ , then yes.” Mrs. Isley, her back to her daughter and company, poured herself a drink from a small desk of crystal decanters. “Marisol takes pride in her work.”

            “Yeah, yeah. _Super_ clean, haha!” Pam’s throat constricted as panic began to settle into Harley’s tone, upping the pitch. “So, where’s Mr. Isley? I bought him a box of cigars, Red said—”

            “Is that what she calls you?” Mrs. Isley turned round to look directly into Pam’s eyes. “Pamela? I don’t suppose, Harleen, that you’ve bought the sort that explode at the end?”

            Harley blinked in surprise. “Wha? Of course not! That’d be dangerous…”

            “Mm,” Pam’s mother dragged a long red nail across the rim of her glass. “I just thought, given your reputation—”

            “Mother!” The word was practically a squeak, but Pam had finally found her voice. “Are we to stay in the guest room?”

            Mrs. Isley relished in her long pause. “Of course. We’re holding a Christmas party this evening, not that you would allow me to explain that to you over the phone. I expect you both dressed as…acceptably as you can. Oh, and about the guest room. Recall it only has one bed…but I’m sure you two will find no issue in that.”

            At the disapproving tone in her mother’s voice, Pam took hold of Harley’s wrist, snatched up as many bags as she could in one hand, and charged off in direction of the room. Inside, once the door slammed shut, Pam panted and rested her forehead against the wall. Recovering from her own pain, old and new, she flung herself toward Harley, wrapping her girl in a tight embrace that made her squeak.

            “Y’okay, Red?” Of course that was the first thing out of Harley’s mouth. “You can loosen up any time, y’know. Old Harl’s back ain’t what it was five years ago.”

 “I’m going to go talk to her. Why don’t you shower before the party? It’s almost six, and usually the guests arrive around seven.” Pam attempted to sound strong, but it came out all wrong. This wasn’t her element, it never had been. “Tell me that you’re proud of me, please?”

            A soft hand stroked Pam’s hair. “I’m always proud of ya, Pam. No matter what.”

            Pam released her, unsure of what her face looked like, but hoped it read as determination in Harley’s eyes.

* * *

 

            Harley considered herself an expert on what family feuds sounded like. The sound of two people arguing filled the guest bathroom as soon as she turned off the water in the shower. Toweling off quicker than she ever had in her natural born life, she slipped on her robe and ran a towel through her hair.

            “—I can’t _believe_ you’d bring that…that _woman_ into our house!”

            Harley stopped just short of opening the door. The knob was already fully turned in her hand, but she froze, still as stone.

            “Mother, lower your voice…please.” It sounded nothing like her, but it must have been Pam. Harley had never heard her voice so small, so ragged, so tight…so childlike.

            “Don’t you try to turn this around on me, Pamela Lillian Isley! Or should I call you _Poison Ivy_ as your filthy thug friends do? I couldn’t believe you would have the audacity to call, much less ask to step foot in this house again!”

            “…Then why would you say yes…?” Harley was no stranger to the sound of Pam holding back tears; despite popular belief, the stony redhead was prone to depressive bouts, and Harley was nothing if at least trained to deal with those situations. It started with pauses in her speech, then her words would slowly disappear.

            “I _agreed_ because I expected you to show up, your heart in hand, begging for forgiveness for making a laughingstock of our family name! Your father has had to completely rework his reputation since you were first admitted to that godforsaken Gotham mental institution! You never think, Pamela, never have! Instead, you show up and have _that harlot_ —”

            “… _don’t call her a_ …”

            “—and are parading around as if that’s _natural_. I’ve never been more disappointed in you than I am right now, Pamela! Whatever happened to that man you were seeing? What was his name?”

            “Bruce Wayne?” Pam supplied, hope in her voice.

            “No, not that pretty-boy philanderer— _Jason Woodrue!_ ”

            Harley bit her lip so hard she could taste the metallic tang of blood in her mouth.

            “If you’ll excuse me, Mother, I have to get ready for the party.”

            Harley shed her robe and darted back into the shower, cranking up the hot water and singing a carol as loudly as she could. The hot water stung, but she could barely feel it. Now, she realized why her previous lovers had never introduced her to their families—Joker was a different case she didn’t like to think about. It was obvious now, she realized with a strangled chuckle, why they hadn’t. She could just never play the part, the part of the good girl you brought home to your parents, and bragged about at fancy parties. She was the quick bang you left at your place, or told family you just knew from work.

            “Harley?” Pam’s voice was ragged from beyond the door. “Sweet Pea, can I join you?”

            Harley shook her head, hoping her tears would be hidden beneath the spray of the shower. “Sure, Red! Anytime…”

            It was a shower Harley would like never to reflect on again. In Arkham, being seen naked was just a given if you wanted to stay clean. From long before whatever she had going with Pam started, they were taught to get clean and not worry about it. But even back when they were _just_ friends, they joked and laughed. The water turned as cold as Pam’s demeanor.

            When they were through and dry, Harley decided to break the ice with something neutral.

            “Zip me up?” She turned, exposing the zipper of her dress. It was her favorite, black and silky and like something she could imagine a model wearing. She knew Pam liked seeing her in it, too.

            “I…I packed a second dress,” Pam explained, holding up one of her own, the only dress she and Harley could wear despite their differing body types. “In case my family wanted us to go to Mass with them on Christmas Eve. I thought—”

            “You packed me a dress,” Harley felt as cold as if she were back in that shower, “because you didn’t think I could _dress myself_ as if I were going to _church?_ ”

            Pam’s eyes widened. “No, no! My…parents, they have…their tastes are…they wouldn’t _understand_ that…”

            “I’ll wear it!” Harley snatched the dress from her hand, forcing the one she was wearing down, angry tears filling her eyes. “I’ll wear any damn thing that will make me _acceptable_ to ya mom, okay?”

            The door swung open and Harley yelped, covering her half-naked body with Pam’s dress. Marisol, the maid, stood holding a stack of sheets on her arm, a hand over her mouth.

            “Oh, Miss Pamela, Mrs. Isley would _not_ take kindly to you and your girlfriend canoodling before dinner.”

            “We aren’t _canoodling!_ ” Pam pushed her out and shut the door. Harley was already in the dress and trying to pin her hair back into a bun when Pam turned to face her. Her reflection joined hers in the mirror as she struggled, and gently Pam took over. Harley set her shaking hands on the vanity surface. “No pigtails tonight?”

            Harley was silent. She’d never felt this way before. She’d felt like a disappointment, sure. But usually that was because she’d mislaid a trap, or fumbled a plan. Somehow, this felt so much worse. It was shredding her apart inside, but she didn’t want Pam to see. She was strong. She could show her that she was someone to be proud of.

            Pam’s father was a rotund man, with grey hair and big hands that engulfed Harley’s when they shook. He thanked her briskly for the cigars, but immediately immersed himself in a phone call, his tone all business in a way that suited his attire. The only trait Red and her father shared were their green eyes.

            “I, um, also brought you a gift, Mrs. Isley.” Harley pulled a small box from the pocket of her borrowed dress. “Pam said you collect seashells. I have a…friend whose pretty good with sea life—penguins, mostly—he helped me pick this one out. It belongs to sea snail—no snail inside, I checked.”

            Mrs. Isley took the box with an arched brow, but didn’t open it. She looked so much like Pam, with her hair piled up atop her head, a single strand of pearls around her neck. She wore a dress of light pink, while Pam wore one of midnight blue. Mrs. Isley was dressed as if the event were a social gathering, Pam a funeral.

            Dinner was the one of many snags of the night. If the guests recognized Harley, they didn’t act like it. Luckily, Harley’s costume was actually rather secretive, what with the greasepaint and her black domino and full body suit. Unless she said something particularly trademark, perhaps no one would think twice of her.

            Except they did stare. They stared at Pam, who had no grace of a secret identity or anonymity. And they occasionally glanced at Harley where the two sat side-by-side. Harley wondered if they could tell that Pam’s hand occasionally took a firm grip on Harley’s thigh, holding on for support, or that, between courses, she took her hand and held it tightly. It was hard to be mad at Pam when she was like this, drowning in anxiety and probably longing for at least a moment of actual silence.

            “It’s time to stop using your salad fork,” Red said in an undertone, her head close to Harley’s. She then spooned her potatoes onto Harley’s plate, as the first of many small, silent apologies that came from her after an argument. “This fork is next.”

            Across the table, Mrs. Isley, though engaged in conversation, still managed to look Harley’s way. Harley had seen many a dirty look before, but none that actually conveyed a wish for a hit on her own life.

            “Harleen,” Mrs. Isley and the two friends she had been chatting with now turned their keen gazes on her. Harley was so startled she almost lost her grip on her fork. “Tell us, what is it that you _do_ for a living?”

            “Harley majored in criminal psychology,” Pam said, her voice stronger than it had been in hours. “Top of her class, too. She was placed into one of the country’s foremost asylums as soon as she graduated.”

            “You sound awfully proud,” the woman to the right of Mrs. Isley, a beaky woman in a dress much too snug for a woman her age. “I suppose that’s because it’s where you two met?”

            Harley wanted to become a gnat, something small and insignificant that could fly away, out of this situation. Pam sat down her fork, and leaned dangerously forward.

            “Yes,” Pam stated firmly, glancing around the table. “I suppose you all know where I’ve been since you’ve last seen me, and you’re probably wondering if your purses and wallets are safe. Rest assured, _they are_. My— _Harleen_ helped me through one of my darkest periods since my ascension as Poison Ivy—” Mrs. Isley now had a grip on her butter knife as if she’d like to shove it through her own daughter’s eye “—and I’ve been better for it. If you can’t respect that, then I have no words for you.”

            “ _How_ can we _respect_ that,” Mrs. Isley spoke up tautly, “when your _friend_ is oft gallivanting with a purple-suited homicidal maniac, Pamela? Harley Quinn is hardly friendship material, dear, much less worthy of being your… _partner_.”

            The rest of the table was now stirred to attention. The potted ferns at the corners of the room bristled like cats.

            “You’re _Harley Quinn?_ ” The other woman beside Red’s mother, a tubby woman with short blond hair, laughed into her hand. “The nutty little girl who’s always tailing around that Joker character? No _wonder_ I thought you looked familiar! Remember, Di,” she placed a hand on Mrs. Isley’s shoulder. “I said to you once that Pamela was wasting her time on that Harley Quinn, remember? It’s one of the worst kept secrets from Gotham, aside from Bruce Wayne’s on-again off-again relationship with Selina Kyle.”

            “That’s right,” the beak-nosed woman nodded vigorously, eying Harley with a wicked grin. The ferns were now overflowing from their pots. “You said, I believe the words were, ‘What a fool Pamela’s become, to place her affections into _that cheap woman_.’”

            CRASH. The ferns erupted from their meager soil, breaking open the wall to the snowy outside. Cold air bashed into the room, the wind cutting through the yells of shock. Pam grabbed Harley’s arm, leapt onto and across the table, and outside.

            “Pamela!” Harley, her head spinning, was the one to stop Pam from running. At the gaping hole in the wall, Mr. Isley stood, holding back his screaming wife. “I’ll send Marisol out with your things; meet her around front. Let me deal with your mother, all right? But thank you—for trying. Merry Christmas, Pam.”

            Harley couldn’t help but smile as tears welled in Pam’s eyes. Together, they ran like bride being whisked away with another suitor from her wedding, and met Marisol on the curb.

            “I told you, Mrs. Isley wouldn’t take kindly to you two girls canoodling,” Marisol tutted, setting their things on the snowy concrete and parting from them without a goodbye.

            “We _weren’t—canoodling!_ ” Pam shrieked, shivering in her sheer dress and sitting down defeatedly in the snow. She pulled her phone from her pocket and sent a hasty text message before folding her arms around her curled legs. Harley knelt beside her, rubbing her back, trying to lend as much warmth as she could. “I’m…I’m so…”

            “Shh…” Harley murmured. “Ya did everything ya could, Pam, I know. Sorry for getting so mad earl—”

            Pam grabbed hold of Harley and crushed her into a rib-cracking embrace. “There you go, apologizing for something that isn’t even your fault again.”

            “There _you_ go, defending me even though you ain’t gotta again.”

            “So,” Pam laughed stuffily. “Are you saying that our apologies cancel each other out? That means we’re both forgiven, right?”

            Harley rolled her eyes. And Red claimed _she_ had screwy logic.

            From down the street, a shabby blue car came flying by, screeching to a halt before the Isley home. In the driver’s seat was their previous cabby, looking blatantly brainwashed, in the passenger seat was a very pissed looking woman holding a bag of fast food, and in the backseat was a girl of about ten, her snotty face pressed against the window.

            “What the hell is going on?” Harley asked as Pam got to her feet.

            “Wow, they must have been really close by,” Pam said, not explaining at all. “Get in, he’ll take us to the train station. We’re heading back to Gotham.”

            “ _This_ is why you stayed behind in the cab earlier!” Harley marveled, tossing their bags into the trunk. “You are _so sneaky_ , Red!”

            Pam smiled, and Harley hoped it wouldn’t be the last for the night. The two piled into the car, Harley in the center, and Pam at the side because she often got car sick. The cabbie’s wife was now too alarmed to say anything, but the little girl was staring at Harley and Ivy in awe.

            “Are you guys _bad guys_?” The little girl asked.

            “ _Tamara_ , that is not how you speak to…guests?” The wife was now crossing herself, breathing frantically.

            “You’re Harley Quinn!” Tamara shouted. “And you’re Poison Oakey!”

            “Ivy, Poison Ivy!” Pam corrected in a sharp whisper, staring out the window.

            “Listen, I know you’re the bad guys, but Harley Quinn, you’re _awesome!_ I like how you flip around, and wear a cute costume, and have a big hammer, and aren’t afraid to kick boys in the face—”

            The rest of the ride to the train station was like that. Harley basking in the glow of being noticed for a good reason for once, and hearing Pam occasionally try not to throw up as they rode along.

* * *

 

            “MAAAA!” Harley pounded on the front door of a worn-looking townhouse. She turned to Pam, suddenly wary of how to do this. “Listen, um, you might wanna step back.”

            Pam, tired from the whirlwind of a day, blinked slowly at Harley, cold and more than ready for bed. “Why?”

            “Weeeeeeell, I told Ma we wouldn’t be here until the day after Christmas, and I didn’t _exactly_ say I’d have company…”

            “ _Harl_.”

            “Hey, you have no room to talk right now, missy. It’s just we ain’t got a lot of room in there, and if I told her I was gonna bring a guest she might’ve said now. ’Sides, if all else fails, we can just go home, get under the blankets, watch a little romantic comedy…especially if you ain’t up for it…”

            Pam stepped back until she was out of the small pool of dim porch light. “You’re here, I’m here, let’s do this.”

            Harley resumed banging on the door. “Ma, open up! Ma! Ma Ma Ma Ma Ma Ma Ma Ma Ma _Ma Ma MAAAAAAA!_ ”

            The door swung open, and an exhausted woman in a faded bathrobe opened the door. Though it was just past ten o’clock, it was clear she had already been in bed. Her greying blond hair was thrown back in a mussed ponytail, and a murderous expression was evident in her eyes—it was different, coming from her own mother; at least _this_ murderous intent was loving.

            “You’re gonna wake up your niece and nephew!” The older woman swatted Harley’s shoulder.

            “Ouch! A’right, a’right, sorry! It’s cold and I wanted inside, so sue me!” Harley elbowed her way in, undoing her scarf. Her mother immediately went in on the whole _you weren’t supposed to be here for days, have to dig out the cot or sleep on the floor_ spiel, when Harley noticed she was closing the door. “Wait, Ma! I, um, brought a guest.”

            “Oh?” From through the gap in the ajar door, all that could be seen was Pam’s shoulder, her purple coat glowing slightly in the—oh _no_. “HARLEEN FRANCES QUINZEL, DID YOU HONESTLY THINK I’D ALLOW THAT HOMOVIOLENT MADMAN INTO MY HOME, UNDER MY ROOF?”

            “Ma! It ain’t—”

            “Um, ma’am?” Pam placed a hand on the door, pushing it open a bit so she could fit her head inside. Her face was a perfect portrait of a woman who needed a damn nap. “Sorry to intrude, but it’s very cold outside, and I’d like to know if I’m allowed in or not so I know whether or not to get my hopes up—I just want to go to bed.”

            Harley now knew what Pam meant when she said Harley occasionally got a look of “stars in her eyes.” Her mother’s expression melted at the sight of Pam, a polite pretty girl wearing a miserable face, who looked like she needed all the mothering in the world. Exactly the type of person Sharon Quinzel liked to care for. She tugged Pam inside, shucked her out of her coat, and whisked her into the kitchen in less than thirty seconds.

            “Wow, sure, yeah I’ll close the door, Ma, no problem.” Harley huffed, kicking it shut. She cringed, eyes shut, but pried one open to spy that two kids now stood at the top of the stairs. They blinked sleepily for a long second before charging at Harley with loud giggles of her name. Harley caught them in a tight squeeze. “Rugrats! I missed ya! What’re ya doing up?”

            “We heard Grandma yelling!” Little Jen answered first.

            “We thought you’d brought us Batman, like, dead and stuff and she was screamin’. Did ya?” Nicky asked.

            “Mm, nah. He’s still pretty good. Gimme a couple years, he’ll start losing steam.” She laughed, kissing both their foreheads. “Ya excited for Christmas?”

            “Yeah!” The shouted in unison.

            “Good, good. A’right, I’m gonna introduce ya to my—friend, and then off to bed, okay?”

            “Awwwwww.”

            “Yeah, yeah, I’m a meanie. Boo-freakin’-hoo.”

            Pam was seated at the scuffed dining room table, sipping a cup of hot cocoa with a bewildered expression on her face as Mrs. Quinzel went on and on from the stove.

            “I’ve been telling Harley for _years_ that she’s needed new friends. Oh, don’t get me wrong dear, I know you’re, well, one of them, too. But you’re by far the least deranged, all things considered! You, at least, are trying to make the world a better place, I think. Much, much better than that psychotic lowlife she nearly gets killed for all the time.”

            “I’ll drink to that,” Pam noticed Harley and the kids at the door as she raised her mug. She made a face; Pam was no good with children. “Um…hello?”

            “Kids!” Mrs. Quinzel had her hands on her hips. “What are you doing out of bed? Don’t you know _Santa_ comes tonight?”

            “Yeah, but we’ll only be a minute, _pleeeeeeease?_ ” Nicky pressed his hands together, a big grin on his face. Harley joined in on his begging. “ _Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeasssse?_ ”

            “Fine,” Mrs. Quinzel huffed. “But no hot chocolate. Five minutes and then straight to bed.”

            “So, is Pop out on bail yet?” Harley asked, reaching around her mother for the cookie jar. She snagged one and tossed one each to Pam and the niece and nephew.

            “Yes, and don’t you wake him. Tomorrow is going to be stressful enough as it is, I’ll have to make extra food, find the old cot in the basement…”

            “Wow,” Jenny drifted toward Pam, her stuffed bear dragging across the floor. She spoke expertly around the glob of cooking in her mouth. “You’re pretty! How’d you get your hair so long?”

            Harley beamed. Pam grimaced. “Uh, well, potting soil?”

            “Oh,” Jenny drooped. “Grandma won’t let me rub dirt in my hair; last time I did, she got mad.”

            “What did she do?” Harley, glaring at her mother, sat in the chair beside Pam’s, eating the situation up.

            Jenny lowered her voice and moved in closer to Pam, as if divulging a terrible secret. “Take a _bath_.”

            “Ugh,” Harley stuck out her tongue.

            “Yeah,” Pam nodded. “Terrible.”

            “So,” Nicky took the seat on the opposite side of Pam. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, trying to look serious. “I’ve got some serious questions for you, lady.”

            “Call her Aunt Pam!” Harley suggested much to Pam’s distress, and her mother’s.

            “Yeah,” Nicky nodded. “Aunt Pam, what are your _intentions_ for Auntie Harley?”

            Pam nearly chocked on her cookie. “ _Intentions_?”

            “Pam and I ain’t going our separate ways anytime soon, brat. Now off ta bed, ya two. Or I’ll tell Santa to fill your stockings with _hyena poop._ ”

            The kids then broke into an argument on how Harley had promised that this year she’d bring Bud and Lou, but Mrs. Quinzel ushered them out before Nicky could use the latest bad word he’d learned from his father. Once the room was empty, Harley put her head in her hands, and Pam laughed.

            “They’re so _embarrassing_ ,” Harley lamented.

            “I don’t think so,” Pam sighed. “I think they’re sweet.”

            “Yeah?” She poked Pam’s side, earning a glare and a pinch back. “Wait until ya meet—”

            “Ugh, it’s _you_.” Speak of the Devil… Barry, her brother, stood in the doorway, scratching his beer belly. On his head was a gaming headset, and in his Cheetos-stained hand was a bottle of Mountain Dew. “Oh, but you brought your hot girlfriend. That’s _something_ at least, spaz.”

            “At least _one of us_ has a hot girl in their life, _Barry_.” Harley stuck out her tongue, wondering why Pam rose from her seat. “There’s a reason why Pop says I’m the son he’s always wanted, you giant loser. Got a job yet? Taken a bath yet?”

            Barry opened his mouth to retort, but Pam cut him off with a tap to his shoulder. “Yeah?”

            “Barry, is it? Barry, I’ve been given explicit permission by your sister to beat the—what was it Harley?”

            “The ever-loving shit out of him.”

            “The ever-loving shit out of you. Are you prepared?”

            “Um…no?” He started backing up, but Pam had already hauled back her fist. After all those years of pummeling Batman and his freakishly strong jaw, Pam had developed an awfully good right hook. Barry fell to the floor with an indistinct grumble of “unnggghffffooowww????”

            Pam shook out her hand. “Want me to punch out your dad, too?”

            “Nah, that was enough.” Harley sprung up from the table and kissed Pam on the cheek. “The pyres of your love for me, Pam. Saw it in your eyes. Right there. A sparkle.”

            “All right, all right.” She nudged Barry with the tip of her boot. “Is he okay?”

            “Yeah, he’ll live. Maybe. I dunno. Let’s go to bed! No cots, but the carpet in the living room is super soft.”

            “Music to my ears.”

* * *

 

            The next morning, Harley awoke to two little kids bouncing up and down on her stomach. She chased them off, only to find Pam had already been awake long ago and had spent most of the morning talking with her mother. The two were actually laughing in the kitchen when she found them. She went to join them, but was swept off her feet in a spinning hug.

            “Harley, my dearest!”

            “Pop, put me down! I haven’t even had pancakes yet and I’m already gonna puke.”

            “Sorry, sorry.” Nick Quinzel set Harley down, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m just so glad you’re _here_. You know, your mother would never admit it, but she was worried you wouldn’t come at all.”

            Harley glanced over at Pam as she helped her mother cook. A warm feeling crept into Harley’s chest. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”


End file.
